


The Scavenger's Non Thanks Giving

by WhirlyGirl



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Drug Use, If i've got it wrong ping me and I can revise things, Little bit sad at the end, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Silly nonsense from my Scavs human AU, bit sweary but not too much.., mention of past drug use, mildly offensive stereotypes used for effect, sorry folks, vaguely tackling the big elephant in the room that is Thanks giving, wasn't sure how to represent megs black hole in the chest so he ended up with cancer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27745366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhirlyGirl/pseuds/WhirlyGirl
Summary: Fulcrum wants Thanks Giving.  Misfire doesn't.  They compromise.  Nautica makes trifle and people forget Ring's name.  Rang.  You know who I mean...
Relationships: Misfire/The Scavengers
Kudos: 7





	The Scavenger's Non Thanks Giving

**Author's Note:**

> Credit to Breakdowns Buttlights on Tumblr or TheRestisStardust on Twitter for the human versions of Roddy and Drift.

‘So, are we doing Thanks Giving?’

Fulcrum drew random shapes in the margin of the 26th in the diary balanced in his lap. Grimlock grunted as he placed a plate that didn’t fit in the dish washer on the drying rack after giving it a prefunctual rinse. He remained steadfastly absorbed in the dishes, refusing to be drawn on the subject.

‘Fuck no, they’ll be no celebrating the oppression and destruction of indigenous peoples in this house! And celebrating the opposite is just fucking virtue signalling of the highest order’. Misfire shifted enough from his sprawled place on the sofa to nudge Fulcrum with his foot. Fulcrum left off doodling enough to frown at him, and note the cigarette he’d couched out of Fulcrum’s bag.

‘Missy, please don’t smoke in here’.

Misfire drew long and deep and blew out a stream of blue haze. He grinned toothily and poked Fulcrum in the side again with his socked foot, who shifted and then battered at Misfire’s foot like an angry cat until he withdrew it with a snort.

‘Thanks Giving…’

‘Nope’.

Misfire swung his legs off the sofa, sat forward, before pushing up into a stretch that lifted his shirt and flashing a thin slither of pale belly, joints popping. He huffed a sigh and ground out the cigarette in the bowl that had contained Fulcrum’s ice cream before Misfire had swooped in and hoovered it up.

He stalked to the bathroom.

‘Thanks Giving!’

‘No celebrating the oppression of indigenous peoples!’

The bathroom door slammed, with enough force that the ridiculous painting Misfire had made Fulcrum buy in a fit of whimsy at some insane art fair jumped and shivered (everyone was stoned, the place had reeked of weed, Fulcrum had bought the painting mainly in a desire to get Misfire out of there in case he got high by proxy).

Fulcrum slumped further into the sofa and sighed. A large, warm, rough hand patted his head, before Grimlock came around the sofa from the kitchen, dishes washed, and sat heavily on the seat next to Fulcrum, effectively taking up the majority of the space. He reached for the remote, flicking it to some black and white oldies, which was marginally better than sport, before dragging Fulcrum down the sofa and crushing him to his side.

‘It’s all good Grimmy, really’ Fulcrum wheezed.

Grimlock grunted and squeezed harder.

*

It was decided (Fulcrum decided. Misfire had hissed and spat and tantrumed, Grimlock had stoically borne the noise and fuss until Misfire had apologized – at least to Grimlock) that they would do Thanks Giving, but they wouldn’t call it that. Or, at least, it would be a thanks giving, a giving of thanks, via a dinner party with all their friends, for living another year without mishap. Fulcrum had told them both that they all had much to be thankful for. Misfire has grumbled something rude and sweary and slammed the bathroom door again.

The guest list proved a lot easier than Fulcrum had thought. Misfire had ‘opinions’ on pretty much everything, but he was very much a people person, and got on with anyone and everyone, except, maybe, Crankcase.

Food was trickier. They wanted to avoid the traditional Thanks Giving turkey, but then there was navigating the minefield of what everyone could or couldn’t eat. In the end it was decided that they’d do a buffet and ask everyone to bring one savory and one sweet dish, that way everyone would have one thing they would eat for mains and desert. Fulcrum pre-made and froze a severing of beef hot pot in the slow cooker for Grimmy, a meal he knew Grimmy would eat with relish, the long cooking making the beef soft and easier for him chew and swallow without choking. He also decided to preempt the completely random selection of food they would invariably end up with and batch cooked and froze a vegan chilli (Drift would be too kind to bring anything that he himself would actually be able to eat, and Roddy and Misfire would eat anything put in front of them) and two platters of lasagna. He’d sort the veggies, salads and breads on the day. He left Misfire in charge of alcohol (Primus help them all).

*

By 3.30pm on the 26th, Misfire’s excitement had reached fever pitch and Fulcrum was ready to defenestrate him. It was a particular irony that his Conjunx had been so dead set against the whole Thanks Giving thing but now was vibrating with anticipation at seeing the rest of the Scavs, and particularly the friends they’d made from their stint with the Lost Light, whom they hadn’t seen in nearly a year. The shriek he loosed when the first knock on the door came at half six was supersonic. Grimlock had frowned and nudged Fulcrum gently into a hug where he was putting the finishing touches to a salad. He didn’t like that his people where acting so goddamn weird.

‘Krok!! Oh Sweet Solus, you gorgeous, sensible, lovely man!’

Krok only managed to stay on his feet as Misfire launched at him because Spin was standing so close behind him that he acted as a buttress. Misfire released Krok, who stumbled a little at the sudden freedom, and tried to look round the solid wall of Spinister.

‘Where’s Grumpy Chops?’

‘Crankcase is hiding behind me so you don’t hug him,’ Spin rumbled. Misfire snorted. 

‘Can I hug you Spin, is that ok?’

Spinister bent slightly and Misfire gifted him with one of the same genuine embraces that Grimlock was privy to, whilst the larger man stiffly allowed it.

‘You ok today Spin, is it a good day?’ Misfire spoke quietly into Spinister’s chest.

He hmmm’d which vibrated Misfire to the very bones and pulled away, setting Misfire at arm’s length to scrutinized his small friend.

‘And are you having a good day Misfire? You’re very loud and excitable. It worries the others sometimes when you are, they think you’re sick again’.

Misfire dropped his gaze, momentarily abashed at the reminder of the times Before, when he was not only loud, but awful and sick with addiction.

‘Nwaah, I’m good Spin, just really happy to see you. Maybe not Grumpy Chops...’

‘Fuck off’. Crankcase appeared from behind Spinister.

Misfire winked at Krok as he opened his mouth to intervene.

‘Missed you too Crankcase’.

*

Rodimus and Drift arrived next. Fulcrum was presented with 3 family buckets of KFC fried chicken and 2 platters of Costco cookies. He arched a brow at Drift, who shrugged graciously. Fulcrum was very glad he’d anticipated that a ‘bring your own buffet’ would result in a random assortment of nonsense and had made the Vegan chilli and a couple of lasagnas.

The young Prime looked happy, relaxed. The cold evening air had coloured his cheeks, bringing out the Well-deep blue of his eyes. He’d allowed his glorious red hair to grow, picked up a little weight. The endless dramas and stresses of captaining the Lost Light, even with Megatron’s mentor-ship, had left him hollowed out. The rift between he and Drift had been devastating. But they stood together now, at ease, in the half light of the porch and Fulcrum was so very glad. He knew Ratchet had much to do with that. 

Drift himself looked well, stood with his usual poise, dark hair long now and silvering around his ears and temple, the ever-present Great Sword at his back a reminder of his new and slightly unnervingly intense devotion to Spectralism. Fulcrum suddenly missed Flywheels and his Neo Primalism. Perhaps he and Drift could have talked about… Primus. Or something. 

Fulcrum looked out into the dark for Rodimus’ usual looming shadow.

‘No Megs?’

Rodimus looked startled. ‘What? Why are you ‘no Megsing me?’

Fulcrum felt oddly embarrassed but had no idea why. ‘I just figured...’

‘You know, being _co captains_ an all...’ Misfire yelled from the other room. Fulcrum could hear Misfire’s waggling eyebrows in the jubilant tone of his taunt.

Drift guffawed behind Rodimus, which was a sight to behold in itself in such a normally reserved individual.

Roddy’s already pink cheeks flushed crimson and he shoved one of the KFC buckets at Fulcrum in disgust.

‘Fuck off! Primus! Why would I invite...? I’m not even dignifying that question with an answer.’

Fulcrum fumbled as the other bucket was thrust at him and Roddy stormed past into the hallway.

‘Baby Prime! Where’s the Slag Maker?’ Misfire’s cackle was filthy as Crankcase joined in the game of Let’s Wind Up Rodimus.

‘WHY WOULD I KNOW??!’

Fulcrum stood balancing buckets of fried chicken under the scrutiny of Drift’s unflappable gaze. Drift smiled and nudged him on the shoulder in lieu of a hug as he carried the final KFC bucket and cookies across the threshold.

‘Shooty dude!’

Misfire shoved Roddy out of the way as he greeted Drift in the hall.

‘Stabby dude now’. Drift grinned and cocked his head to the Great Sword slung across his back. He handed Misfire the rest of the food and unstrapped the sword, leaning it gently in the corner.

‘I knew you before you went all hippy and swordy and shit’.

Drift snorted. ‘You really didn’t. But I knew of you before you were Misfire – wasn’t it Flyhigh?’

Roddy mumbled ‘Something high’ from where he was already spooning a mound of lasagna onto his plate, earning a growl from both Grimlock and Spinster that silenced him pretty quick.

*

‘Rang!’

‘Rung’ was chorused from the other’s in the kitchen.

The diminutive psychologist took Misfire’s death squeeze in good humour and nodded to Fulcrum. He’d removed his coat and draped it over the newel post with the others, when he was enveloped from behind and folded into an all-consuming, yet ever so gentle hug from Grimlock. He was unable to move and as most did, just surrendered to the moment, allowing Grimlock to bury his nose into his scalp and whuff warm breaths as he enjoyed the scent of his favourite doctor. 

Rung had stopped explaining he wasn’t actually Grimlock’s doctor; all Grimmy knew was that Rung had helped him make more sense of what was an often-terrifying world, and had helped stop his Amica from putting poison in his body that had made him loud and unkind.

Rung was accosted by Rodimus next, their ever-ebullient Captain picking the smaller man clear off the ground in another crushing hug. He was dropped without ceremony as Roddy’s attention went elsewhere and stood smoothing his waist coat and putting his glasses back onto his face straight in the manner of a slightly rumpled cat.

He became aware of Spinister’s laser sighted attention once he’d collected himself and returned the intense scrutiny with the most disarming smile he could muster. Fulcrum returned and placed a glass of wine in Rung’s hand before returning to the kitchen, which was a welcome distraction from the attention of the Scavenger’s enormous and only rudimentally stable medic.

‘Good evening Spinister, it’s lovely to see you so well’.

Spinister remained unwavering in his focus.

‘Primus’, he returned and Rung choked on his wine.

*

Nautica’s smile was blinding and Fulcrum’s heart sunk to his boots to see it.

‘I didn’t know what savoury thing to bring, so I went for dips and chips but I made a trifle for pudding’. She shoved a bowl of gloop at him and marched through into the kitchen.

‘A what?’

‘Trifle! You know, with the biscuits in the bottom and sherry and cream...’

Roddy had appeared at the sound of her voice. She was, after all, his quantum engineer.

‘Sherry?? Nautica, I seriously worry about you...’

Fulcrum pointed at the pot of black… tadpole type stuff she had on the platter with the dips she’d deposited on the kitchen side. ‘Is that caviar?’

‘Yes!’ Nautica spun to face him and gave a little minute dance of excitement, just a little pad from foot to foot that had Fulcrum further cringe internally. ‘ I thought maybe the Slag...’ She stopped herself, though Fulcrum wondered why she’d limit herself, what with the caviar and trifle nonsense. ‘…I thought Megatron might be here and he might like some’.

Roddy was all over her statement like a rash.

‘You thought a genocidal maniac…’

‘...Roddy…’ Fulcrum groaned at the awfulness of it.

‘...who started as socialist miner poet, who also started a revolution against the bourgeoisie, would like caviar?’

‘…Big words Baby Prime…’

Fulcrum was glad Crankcase had decided Rodimus was his victim of choice tonight and not Misfire, but still.

Rung cleared his throat: ‘I don’t think any of those terms are applicable or appropriate any more.’

Nautica looked confused, and slightly hurt. ‘Well, he’s from that part of the world...’

Fulcrum put the bowl of gloop down suddenly as Rung frowned and then removed his glasses to polish them.

‘Poet’.

Roddy looked at Drift, confused. ‘Huh?’

Drift chewed and swallowed, pointing his fork at Roddy and then more widely to the everyone who was now listening to him intently. ‘He still writes.’

‘And you know this how?’ Roddy crossed his arms, though he had no place to. If Ratchet had been here, he would have grinned at the Prime’s flicker of jealousy.

‘We talk and unlike you’, Drift poked Roddy in the sternum ‘I listen’.

Roddy snorted. ‘What, old ‘Cons together is it?’

‘No Roddy’, he patted Rodimus on the shoulder as he passed to get more chilli, ‘Old friends together’.

*

Misfire rubbed his belly and groaned. He’d made it nearly half of the way through one of the Costco cookie platters before Fulcrum had been a spoil sport. Fulcrum was always a spoil sport, which is why Misfire had mainlined the cookies in the first place. But fist sized cookies, plus fried chicken, plus lasagna, plus a good bottle and a half of some Pit damned cheap wine and Misfire was out of play. Grimlock was sprawled next to him, dozing peacefully. Misfire snuggled into his side, head pillowed into the softness of his Amica, content to listen to the low rasp of his breathing as he slept.

Fulcrum was right (though Misfire would never ever say so). Non Thanks Giving had been a great idea. It was good to see the rest of the Scavs, who hadn’t gathered since Flywheel’s funeral. And the few Lost Lighters who’d come had reminded Misfire of when not everything had been great, but when everything had been truly real. There was no falseness with these people. They knew it all, felt it all. They were all odd balls just like him.

The scent of fresh air and weed wafted over him and he gave Grimmy a pat before he dragged himself up to pad through the lounge and kitchen to the back door, which stood ajar. A shaft of light illuminated where Fulcrum stood smoking and Drift was crouched in an uncomfortable looking squat, head wreathed in a halo of smoke. Marijuana had never been Misfire’s drug of choice, though he'd never indulged in the extremes that Drift had, before Megatron had arrived on the scene, scuffed the street rat junkie Drift had been and forcefully molded him into the form of Deadlock. Shooty dude he may no longer be, but for a moment as he crouched in the half light, Misfire caught a glimpse of the Dead End skiv he'd been before the ‘Cons.

Misfire sidled up to his Conjunx and cupped his face in one hand, before giving him a gentle kiss. Fulcrum tasted of cigarettes and bad wine and home. Fulcrum closed his eyes and relished the quiet moment with his normally insane partner and half wished Grimlock would appear to envelop them and round off the moment with perfection.

Drift had ground out his joint and stood slightly awkwardly.

‘Apologies Misfire, Fulcrum said you’d be ok with...’

Misfire smiled against Fulcrum’s mouth.

‘I am, don’t worry lovely.’

Drift smiled and the mantle of the Dead End and Deadlock slipped away.

‘I’m going to scrape Roddy up and head off. It was a lovely evening, thank you.’

Fulcrum blinked blearily at Drift, half asleep now Misfire’s warmth was draped over him. Misfire gave an odd little wave. ‘Take some food home for Ratty, there’s still plenty left. You’ll have to drop by next time he’s off shift.’

Drift smiled wryly. ‘He's never off shift, but I'll try to drop by next month.’

A crash followed by a whoop and cackle echoed from the kitchen. They could hear Rung's admonishment of whatever their young Prime and (not, 100% NOT) co-captain was up to.

Drift offered a half salute.

‘My queue to leave I think.’

‘Happy Non Thanks Giving Drift'

‘And to you both.'

*

‘Drift?’

For a moment the larger man was haloed by the interior light of the hallway, before he stepped out on to the porch, with a care to his movements that made Drift’s stomach swoop in uncomfortable ways. 

It wasn’t late really, not for a man who was formerly a night owl, but Megatron was wrapped in a dressing gown that had seen better days, hunched slightly against the change of temperature. Where the robe was belted loosely at his waist, Drift could see he’d lost weight again, this current round of chemotherapy harder on him that previous ones. Ratchet had assured Drift it was going well, as far as doctor patient confidentiality would allow, commenting in his gruff way that ‘the bastard’ would ‘out live us all’. 

Megatron squinted somewhat myopically at Drift as his eyes adjusted to the semi darkness. The cloudy quality to his left eye, an encroaching cataract, obscured his sight, and long nights of close reading in the half light of the mines and then of planning and stratagem in poorly lit dug outs and fox holes had left him short sighted now in his twilight years.

‘Hello sir’.

A smile curved the corner of the older man’s mouth at the unnecessary formality, a show of respect, Megatron knew, even now, for the man who’d pulled Drift out of the gutter. The smile faded again and he frowned.

‘Is everything alright?’

‘Yes. All well.’ He held out the bowl of trifle, untouched by the others, with a smile of his own. ‘I wanted to give you this’.

Megatron squinted again, more at the incongruous nature of the contents of the bowl Drift had presented him. ‘Is that…?’

‘Trifle. Yes.’ He gestured for Megatron to take it. ‘From the Non Thanks Giving. Nautica made it’.

The older man gave a low rumble of a laugh, in an unguarded way that so very few were privileged to be party to.

‘She also bought caviar, in the mistaken belief that you’d have enjoyed it’.

Megatron choked out a barely stifled bark of laughter at that point and Drift joined him. He took the bowl, grateful that Drift knew him better and for thinking to include him, even if the invite to join the Scavenger’s odd evening hadn’t quite reached him.

‘Megs? What are you doing? You’re letting all the heat out’.

The irritated and scratchy baritone of Megatron’s former Second heralded his appearance in the door way, still elegant even in a rumpled shirt and worn drain pipe jeans, still impossibly slim, hand curled around a long-stemmed wine glass. Blood red nails, more like talons, matched the crimson flash through the front of his gun metal grey hair, tied back in a messy bun, and the high flush on his pale -skinned cheek bones. He eyed Drift stonily.

‘Deadlock’.

Drift hadn’t even thought to correct him before Megatron rumbled a warning.

‘Star…’.

Starscream scoffed derisively ‘Drift. Whatever. Why are you here?’

Megatron turned so Starscream could see the bowl in his hands. One perfectly manicured eyebrow arched.

‘What in the Pit is that?’

‘Trifle’. Both Drift and Megatron spoke at once.

‘Oh Primus, why??’

‘Nautica made it, for the Scavenger’s Non Thanks Giving dinner. Drift was kind enough to think of us.’

‘Us?? I shall not be touching that with a 10-foot barge pole if it’s been anywhere near that bunch of miscreants, there isn’t a brain cell between any of them…’

‘Star.’

‘Urgh!’ He threw up the hand not holding his wine in disgust and turned on is heel. ‘Goodbye Deadlock’.

‘It’s Drift’.

Starscream smirked over his shoulder as he sashayed back into the house and disappeared. Voices rose and fell from inside and Drift decided to take his leave. He turned to his former mentor and leader and gave a formal little half bow, a gesture of respect ingrained in him by another, more recent mentor. A wry smile quirked at the corner of Megatron’s lip that Drift would show such a gesture now, when Deadlock, back in the days, would never have deigned to bend to anyone.

A tall, imposing figure momentarily blocked out the light of the door way.

‘Megatron? Is everything alright?’

‘Hello sir’. Drift echoed his earlier greeting.

Magnus’ face brightened in a way that Drift now knew to be a smile, even if his features remained schooled and serious.

‘Thank you again for thinking of us Drift, whatever Starscream’s complaints, I’m pretty sure I’ll find him elbow deep in trifle later’.

Magnus frowned slightly in confusion and Megatron turned with the bowl to show him, before stepping over the threshold back into the house.

‘Goodnight, sirs.’

‘Goodbye Drift’. 

*


End file.
